Legend (Arizona Vengeance 3)

“What the fuck should we do?” he turns to ask Bishop and me. “He’s going to be in serious trouble.”

That’s all pressing and we need to figure shit out, but I’m more worried about Tacker’s physical and mental well-being at this point. There can’t be doubt in anyone’s head that this is related to MJ’s death.

He said he’d never be okay.

But first, I need to figure out if he needs a hospital. I squat down beside Erik and lightly tap my hand against Tacker’s cheek. It’s crusty with powder from the airbags. “Hey…Tacker, buddy.”

His eyes are slit halfway open. “What’s up?” he slurs.

“Are you okay? That was a really bad accident. Are you hurting anywhere?”

Tacker gives a mirthless laugh. “I hurt everywhere.”

“Point to where,” Erik tells him.

Tacker’s hand comes slowly up and he taps his fingers against his chest.

Right over his heart.

“Anywhere else?” I say, a little loudly to get him to focus as his eyes start to shut.

I’m afraid he might be on the verge of passing out, whether from the alcohol or something serious going on internally, and I’ve almost made my mind up to call 9-1-1 when his eyes pop open.

He stares at me and for a moment, his eyes are clear and lucid. His voice isn’t as slurred when he asks me, “How do you live with knowing you killed someone you loved?”

Tacker’s voice is broken with misery and my heart actually contracts painfully in response to his own pain. “You did nothing wrong,” I remind him. “There was a malfunction with the plane.”

One corner of his mouth tips up. “Yeah…but I talked her into taking the plane. So that makes it my fault.”

Tacker’s eyes start to shut again and you can tell it’s an effort for him to stay awake. I look at Erik, making a command decision. “Call 9-1-1 and get an ambulance.”

He stares at me a moment, knowing that we’re dooming Tacker to criminal charges for driving drunk.

So be it.

I’d rather him live.

“Tacker,” I say loudly as I tap him on the face again. “I want you to stay awake buddy, okay? Can you do that?”

His eyes pop back open in response to my voice. They’re flat and dead. I think he wants to be dead and that’s why he drove his truck into the concrete barriers.

“Today’s her birthday,” he murmurs and tears start leaking out of his eyes. “She would have been twenty-eight.”

“Jesus,” Bishop whispers as he starts pacing. Erik stands and turns away from the terribly sorrowful scene that is Tacker Hall. He pulls his phone out and starts the call.

I take Tacker’s hand in mine, wrap my other hand on top. I give it a squeeze. “It’s okay, Tack. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

I look up at Bishop and he shakes his head at me slowly. He’s thinking what I’m really thinking and that Tacker’s not going to be okay at all.Chapter 27LegendI step off the elevator onto the third floor of St. John’s Memorial Hospital and follow the signs until I find Room 3027. It’s early and visiting hours don’t start for another hour but we’ve got a mandatory team meeting this morning and I wanted to see how Tacker was doing first.

After the game last night—which we got trounced 5–0 by a team that’s in last place in our division—several of the players loaded up and headed straight to the hospital to check on Tacker. He’d been admitted but the information was vague on how he was.

Turns out, when we got there, we were turned away at the nurse’s station because he did not want visitors. Even Coach Perron, who was extremely pissed at Tacker, but also extremely worried, was not allowed into his room.

So here I am, sneaking in before visiting hours to ease my worry by seeing him.

The floor is relatively quiet and there are two nurses at the station, both with their head bent over their computers. I walk casually by and neither one bothers to look at me.

The door to Room 3027 is closed and I give just a quick rap before pushing it open. I’m not going to wait for him to yell at me to go away.

A cursory glance reveals the standard type hospital room with bed, a visitor’s chair against the wall, small TV mounted, and a private bathroom with a sink. Tacker is standing by the window in his hospital gown, his back to me as he looks at the street below. I notice a short cast on his left arm.

“Hey,” I say as I shut the door behind me.

He jolts and turns to face me.

Damn, he looks like shit. Eyes bloodshot with bruises underneath, scabs all over his face and a dull expression.

“No need to ask how you feel,” I say and then nod toward the cast. “What did you break?”